It was during one of those encounters dog people have all the time that someone remarked of her pooch, “He’s the dog of my life.” I knew exactly what she meant – the dog equivalent of the man the characters on the late Sex and the City TV series called The One – though I hadn’t thought of it in those terms.

I love dogs, all dogs, all the time, or so I’d imagined. I’m one of those people who will stop the car and run out after a particularly fetching mutt. I can’t pass a dog without saying hello, and really can’t remember ever meeting a dog I didn’t like, in whom I didn’t find some redeeming quality.

And I’ve had dogs all my life.

As a child, there was ‘Lucky’ (a big doofus of a Boxer who routinely knocked me down when I came home from school) and ‘Mickey’ (a dear mutt with whom my late father, gentle soul that he was, slept on the kitchen floor after she was neutered in the butchered surgery that killed her). As an adult there was ‘Suzie’ (small, grey and affectionate), ‘Blux’ (a big black Lab cross my then-husband and I loved unreservedly), ‘Boo’ (a Vizsla cross we adopted after she was given up for being a “nervous urinator” and who soon was cured), and ‘Daisy,’ a wonderful small dog who looked remarkably like a German Shepherd someone had sat on (big Shep head and ears set on a short-legged frame).

But not until I got ‘Obie’ did I find The One.

He’s a white Bull Terrier, a breed whose legend I’d been raised on (my dad had had one) and which I’d always admired for its distinctive looks. Almost four years ago, after Daisy died, I suddenly decided I was going to get one – my first non-pound dog, and my first puppy, and my first dog as a single person – and upon the advice of a Bull Terrier-loving friend, found a great breeder in Pennsylvania, Mary Remer.

Despite his noble lineage – the dog has a much better family background than I do and certainly a vastly better-documented one – Mary named him O.B., which stands for Other Boy, the first male being called First Boy, though we spell it Obie.

I passed the hour-long interview and one day in the spring of 2006, just after I returned from my first trip to Afghanistan, my friend Pat and I drove down to get him.
I hadn’t a clue, really.

We arrived at this gorgeous estate set amid rolling green hills near Villanova, met Mary and were led to the palatial area where puppies from Obie’s litter, and I think two others, were kept. I walked into the enclosed yard and was immediately set upon by what seemed to be a small herd of baby land sharks, all leaping up with needle teeth. The next day, Pat and I returned, got Obie’s papers and instructions, and began the long drive home to Toronto.
He slept in my lap, alternately snoring and farting, all the way home, and my life hasn’t been the same since.

Mary had seen to it that he was brilliantly socialized, but he was also a naturally social fellow. She runs classes out of her place too, and every day dozens of people arrive for various lessons, and as soon as he could waddle about, Obie was apparently up and greeting visitors. But for a few months shortly after he turned three and was feeling his manly oats, he has remained exactly the same – friendly to all people, most dogs and his own cat.

And she told me too that despite his sturdy appearance and for all his confidence and ease, Obie was a sensitive dog, his feelings hurt by even a raised voice or a cheek turned from his kiss. It was an astute observation, a measure of what a good breeder she is and how well she knows her dogs, because Obie is indeed easily wounded and dislikes conflict of any sort.

Within a day or two, I was deeply in love, though at first he was so stubborn about walking (that is, he wouldn’t) that my long-time dog-walker quit in a snit, which turned out to be a great blessing because then I found the two women who ever since have taken care of him during the day when I’m at work and whenever I’m out of town.

He is not especially well trained, which is my fault, but he’s well trained enough; I like a cheeky dog. He can sit and shake a paw. He’s a pretty good walker now, except in the heat, and sometimes will bump the backs of my legs with his big head so much it’s like travelling around with my own personal rugby scrum going on right behind me. Except in the summer, he runs with me three times a week, his longest distance 17 kilometres.

And so long as there’s not a tennis ball around, he will stay and come; if there is one, he turns into a dog who is deaf and blind to all my entreaties and will dance around me, just out of reach, laughing despite the ball in his mouth.

He did this once when I had a plane to catch: It took a kindly couple, who had departed the park an hour earlier with their obedient dog and who from their balcony spotted Obie and I still in the park, me nearly weeping with frustration, to save the day. They came back down with a cold pizza, and thus we trapped him into dropping the ball.

Another time, it was a dead frozen squirrel he found, and carried around as about 15 adults and five kids chased him, grinning until the squirrel melted, at which point he began to eat it. I caught him only when he attempted to swallow the head, and mercifully stopped to throw up.

I no longer let him off leash. Now, we just do our runs, and walk longer and more often. At least four of his dog friends regularly come over for visits, and in the confines of the house, tear about where it’s perfectly safe.

Though I joke about him being a blockhead (the Bull Terrier ranks 66 of 67 breeds in The Intelligence of Dogs, which is why my brother, who lives in Quebec, calls him Soixante-Six), I don’t think he is and wouldn’t care anyway. He has a kind heart (he outweighs some of his dog friends by 50 pounds, but he routinely lets them win at tug-of-war), is completely unpossessive about his toys and food (though a tad greedy about the bed), is gentle and sweet with the little blind Italian Greyhound across the street, and altogether the best company in the world.

In the mornings, he will yawn and stretch for 30 minutes if allowed, those legs stretched out behind him, tail doing circles. He likes it when I sing and whistle to him as we walk, so I do it, non-stop. I can reassure him with certain songs, wind him up with others. He likes the cold and the wind, especially, and sometimes, when he’s very playful or bursting with joy, will gently nip the backs of my calves as we walk, just so I know how he’s feeling.

Near the house, he always stops by a particular bush to eat a leaf or two; he does it only so I will tell him, faux-sternly, that he is a wicked and ill-mannered dog. He likes to carry a stick as we go; I think he thinks of it as a job; we have a collection of well-carried sticks on the front porch.

I can’t get enough of him, in truth. I don’t love him because he loves me back, or anything like that. I love him because he’s him, and because he’s The One.